


Penny

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grocery Store, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim visits Bones at work, and Bones visits the bakery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penny

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: What if the Enterprise crew had to do shitty jobs like the rest of us? D: Poor babies. (Also, R.I.P. the Canadian penny.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s one of those slow days where there’re only about four customers in the entire store, and two of them are old ladies that never really leave. The one saving grace is that the regulars all know not to come to Leonard’s till if they just want to chat; the Enterprise is a shitty enough place to work without having to fake smile. They don’t pay Leonard enough for forced small talk. 

They pay Leonard just enough that it wouldn’t be worth getting a new job—he’s been here too long, and anything else would be a step down benefits and pay wise. Never mind that he’s got half the schooling to be a doctor and could probably go back and finish up. He fucked his life up. He got lazy and let his ex put all his dreams on the backburner. And now he’s way too old to be a cashier in a shitty food store, but here he is, manning till number nine because it’s as far away from two and three as possible, where two other cashiers are actually being functional and polite people. They’re young. They don’t know yet that the Enterprise will inevitably crush their souls. 

The other saving grace is Jim, who’s just as much of a fuck up and doesn’t seem to have anything better to do on a Wednesday evening than haunt Leonard’s till and never actually buy anything. Well, he bought a plastic container of baked-in-store cookies from the bakery for Leonard to ring up, but that was half an hour ago. Jim usually doesn’t buy anything. He just flitters around and simultaneously keeps Leonard entertained and drives Leonard up the wall. 

“Oops, sorry,” Jim mumbles between bites as a particularly large chunk of cookie tumbles onto the belt. 

“Awww,” Leonard grumbles instantly, tilting his head with the agony that Jim brings him. “Can you not eat like a five year old? Who’s going to clean that up?”

“Not you,” Jim snorts. “You never clean these things.”

Leonard rolls his eyes and flicks the crumb to the end of the belt, where it tumbles off and to the floor. Jim’s right. It’s bad enough he has to wear this tacky blue shirt and the stupid white apron—he’s not about to go getting down on hands and knees and actually scrub the station like he’s supposed to. Besides, he’s got Pavel covering him for break, and that kid cleans everything. He’s way too eager. He’s young: another poor soul oblivious to the reality of the till’s soul-crushing nature. He’ll deal with Jim’s mess. Jim spills another few crumbs and mutters, “Sorry.”

“I hate you.” What Leonard means is that he hates being here, but whatever. They’re good enough friends that he can be an asshole like that. 

Way too cheery, Jim snorts, “You love me.” But he must feel a little bad, because he fishes into his bag to open the container, pulling out another cookie while the last one is still shoved into his mouth. He holds it out to Leonard and mumbles something around his mouthful that might be ‘take it.’

Leonard doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. The six tills between him and other people make him feel isolated; the service desk with the (most likely absent) supervisor is blocked off by a partition sporting magazines along the back of till one. The aisles run perpendicular to the row of tills, and Leonard can see soup and juices down the one at the end of his. To the left is the wall, lined with seasonal products and ending in a door on either side, both far enough away from Leonard that he can’t feel it when they open to let in the breeze. The windows above those doors and shelves show off a grey, depressing sky. Leonard takes the cookie. 

Jim says just as Leonard bites into it, “They’re terrible.”

It’s chocolate chip. It tastes slightly burnt, stiff, and there are very few chips in it. It’s not atrocious, but it’s definitely not good. He scrunches up his face as he pulls it out of his mouth and glares at it, chewing a chunk. Before taking another bite, he asks Jim in accusation, “Why’d you buy these? They have samples.”

Jim shrugs. “The guy was cute.”

“Hendorff? That’s disgusting.”

“Ew, what? No, there’s some new guy there. ‘Bout my age.” Jim swallows again and adds with a bit of a glare, “Thanks for heads upping me, by the way. You know I tell you when the Vengeance hires new hot waitresses.”

Leonard takes another bite despite the cookie being terrible purely out of spite. He irrationally wants the crumbs to mess up his till, even though he knows that, rationally speaking, Pavel will suffer more than the company. But then Bones tells himself that it’s his duty to break Pavel down sooner rather than later so he knows to get out while he’s still young. Leonard doesn’t even know where to start on Jim. 

“First of all, I told you I’m off women. Second, I have nothing to do with the bakery department. And why exactly should I be helping you get mono _again_?”

Turning a bit pink, Jim exclaims, “That was one time!”

One time too many. Jim’s easy, and that’s a _nice_ way of putting it. Leonard’s half tempted to pick up his phone and warn whoever’s just gotten hired in the bakery to watch out. Instead, he reasons, “Anyway, you thought buying his shitty cookies was gunna get you his number?”

Jim shrugs. “I was just trying to get him to talk to me more. He was all stiff and wouldn’t come out of the counter, and I know I’m not supposed to be back there. So I wanted him to show me the cookies, but instead he just started prattling off the pros and cons of each flavour before telling me they’re all ‘highly lacking in nutritional value’ anyway.” Shaking his head, Jim adds, “Bizarre.” He finishes that cookie and reaches into his bag for another. How he still looks like a super model and not a five-hundred-pound walrus is completely beyond Leonard. 

Leonard’s on the brink of teasing Jim again when Pavel appears at the end of his till, curls bouncing against his forehead as he fidgets to clean up the empty bags spilled at the end. When Leonard opens a plastic bag wrong, he just flings it over there. Pavel never complains, and he’s the only cashier not scared enough of Leonard yet to relieve him for break. Once the till’s clean, Pavel chirps, “Time for break.” Then he turns to Jim, smiling and asking, “Have you been helped, sir?”

Jim takes one look at Pavel before blatantly eyeing him up and down. Jim’s face splits into a grin, and he tells Leonard, “Bones, scram.”

“He’s seventeen,” Leonard says dryly. But he undoes his apron from the back anyway, pulling it over his head and stuffing it under the till. If he wears it on break, customers might stop him and asks questions. And he’s not going to answer them. 

“I can wait a year,” Jim laughs while Leonard heads off, not without seeing Pavel’s heavy blush. Jim leans over the till and starts talking, but Leonard blocks out the smarmy pick up lines as he leaves. He’ll buy something for lunch, and then he’ll grab Jim and they’ll go eat in the parking lot and feed the rest of the awful cookies to the birds or something. Hopefully Pavel’s virginity will still be intact by then. 

The bakery department’s tucked away at the back of the store, next to the produce. There’re a few tables for packaged goods, and then there’s a counter with a small space for employees to walk through, but the view for customers is mostly blocked by glass displays and metal cooking racks. Leonard’s only been back into the kitchen part a few times, on the odd occasion where something’s screwed up and it’s easier to go ask someone in person than to page or call and have the phone ignored. As he weaves straight through the tables, he can’t help but look at how oddly... pristine... they are for the Enterprise. He knows that if he had a department on the floor, it’d never be clean. 

He calls, “Hello?” about two seconds before strolling right behind the counter, glancing left. There’s a man bent over the metal table, kneading dough. Or rather, patting dough. He looks about Jim’s age, so maybe that makes him a boy, to Leonard, anyway. He’s roughly the same height as Leonard, but thinner and less muscular—lithe. Almost pretty. Not Jim’s sort of pretty, blond and blue eyed, but something more serious, more mature. He has sleek, jet-black hair cut in an awkward bowl cut, straight bangs flawless just above his pointed eyebrows. His eyes are dark, and his pink lips are bow-shaped, pursed a little as he looks at Leonard. His apron is pulled tight around his waist, and his blue sleeves are rolled up. He has excellent posture, and the curve of his back looks just right for Leonard to scoop it up. 

Leonard realizes belatedly that he’s staring, and he thrusts out one hand, the other slipping into the pocket of his black pants. “Leonard. I work the tills.” For some reason, when he tells people that, he always expects them to say, ‘my condolences.’ Instead, the man merely arches an eyebrow. Leonard gestures with the open hand, elaborating, “And you are...?”

“Spock,” the man finally concedes. “My hands are covered in flour; while I appreciate your intent, it would not be advisable to shake them.”

It’s Leonard’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Jim told him this guy’s cute, and that’s true, but what Jim should have said was this guy’s weird. Well, he did say bizarre. Leonard puts his outstretched hand in his pocket. If Spock were any less attractive, Leonard would walk out right now and pay Spock as much attention as he pays all his coworkers: none.

But Spock _is_ cute, and there’s something about the dorky way he’s attempting to cow the dough that keeps Leonard rooted to the spot. Or maybe it’s the way Spock’s clearly not looking at Leonard on purpose, the tops of his cheeks just a little bit pink. Leonard wonders absently if he’s making Spock uncomfortable by being back here—he never likes it when customers get near the back of his till. But he’s not a customer, and he stays where he is. 

To cut the tension, he asks, “So... when’d you get hired?”

“Monday,” Spock answers. When it’s clear that Leonard’s not moving, he adds, “This is my first official shift.” 

Leonard nods. 

Then, because he’s so used to being an asshole that he doesn’t know how to turn it off around potential fucks, he says, “You make shit cookies.” Then he maintains a straight face while he feels a little stupid. Well, he shouldn’t be fucking coworkers, anyway. Especially not if he’s going to get after Jim for it. (Although he’s a hell of a lot better than Jim.)

Spock goes a little tense, fingers freezing. He says, “I... followed the recipe exactly.”

“That doesn’t guarantee good results.”

Looking a little confused, Spock glances over. He straightens up, somehow both defensive and lost, like he’s sure he’s right because he can’t fathom another way. “That is the only way to guarantee acceptable results.”

“Acceptable, maybe, but if you want baked goods that actually taste good, you gotta put a bit more into them. Watch them and taste them and make judgments or whatever.” Whatever the ex used to do. Leonard’s not much of a cook; he just has common sense. 

There’s another moment of silence before Spock says rather stiffly, “Thank you for the advice.” And he looks back at his dough. Leonard gets the distinct impression that that wasn’t sincere, and Spock just doesn’t know how to employ sarcasm correctly so it gets muddled up with hollow politeness. 

Because this is getting painful to watch, Leonard sighs and steps forward. Another step and he’s right in Spock’s personal space; Spock’s shoulders rise and his cheeks grow darker, more noticeable against his pale skin. Leonard expects him to step out of the way, but he doesn’t, so Leonard slips in behind him, stepping right up to Spock’s back, his hard muscles almost grinding into Spock through his shirt. He can feel the bow at the back of Spock’s apron pressing into his crotch, and he hears Spock elicit a tiny, sensual gasp.

Leonard’s acutely aware that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s ready to pull back the second he gets the signal. Spock doesn’t give it. When Spock doesn’t do a thing, Leonard reaches around, bracketing his arms, reaching the terrible. Leonard kneads the dough properly, shoving his palms down into it, applying the weight and pressure that Spock wasn’t. He turns it over and does this a few times, then he places his hands over the backs of Spock’s, intertwining their fingers to guide Spock forward. He pushes Spock’s hands into it properly, showing him how. Leonard’s head is right over Spock’s shoulder. Spock’s ears are slightly pointed, his profile pretty, his breath coming just a little bit too quick. He smells like cinnamon.

“ _This_ is how you do it,” Leonard purrs, making sure to let his breath ghost over Spock’s neck. 

Spock makes a quiet keening sound. He arches, every so slightly, back into Leonard. Leonard experimentally pushes Spock’s hips forward, letting them lightly bang into the table, just to see what happens. Spock grips at the table, mumbling thickly, “There is... there is no logical reason for this to improve the taste of the bread.”

“I think you’ve got a lot to learn about delicious things, newbie,” Leonard chuckles. He rocks his hips a little bit to let Spock know exactly what he means. He can feel how firm and ripe Spock’s ass is, and if he ever catches Spock alone in the break room, the Enterprise will suddenly be a lot more interesting. Or he could probably just drag Spock to the back of the bakery—there’s only ever one staff member in each outer department after four. They probably wouldn’t get caught. 

But that should probably happen another night, when he’s built this up a bit, and Spock isn’t new and fresh and trembling, and he hasn’t just gotten after Jim for wanting to do exactly this. 

It’s not his fault that he can go where Jim can’t and he has the experience to make Spock gasp. He could make Spock scream. 

Spock’s a strange name. Leonard’s going to enjoy paging it over the speakers and having Spock run to him, or whispering it in Spock’s ear as he pins Spock up in the locker room, or maybe takes him in the supply closet. Leonard’s mind races through possibilities—he’s got too many daydreams racked up from too many boring hours spent here. This is the first time he’s actually found someone attractive enough to specifically insert into those dreams, though. Well, attractive and legal. And not irritating like all the other cashiers. Maybe Spock will turn out to be incredibly annoying, but so far he just seems odd and uptight and like he could use a good _boning._

He lets Leonard show him how to knead the dough for a couple more minutes before swallowing and asking hoarsely, “Do you do this with all of the new hires?”

No. Leonard can’t remember the last time he was this forward. But he just sort of... did it. It happened. And now he’s here, and he purrs, “Just the cute ones.”

“I am not cute,” Spock says, stiffening. 

Handsome. That’s probably what he should say. Instead, Leonard insists, “You’re cute.” He’s tempted to kiss Spock’s cheek. Or bite Spock’s ear. Instead, he kneads the dough a little more before pulling back. “You got the hang of it? If you put a little more heart into it, it’ll taste better.”

Spock looks like he doesn’t believe it. He also looks embarrassed and a little turned on and like he’s trying very hard to feel none of those things. He says abruptly, “You have very skilled hands.” Then he immediately clamps his mouth shut, going absolutely rigid, clearly mortified with himself. 

Leonard just chuckles, “Thanks. I trained to be a doctor.”

Spock looks back. There’s a sudden spark in his eyes: interest. He’s frowning. Why would a doctor be working as a cashier?

Because life sucks, but for some reason, Leonard doesn’t quite want to crush Spock’s soul just yet. So he opens his mouth to request that Spock feed him a sample cookie when he hears a shrill, “Bones!”

Leonard could smack Jim. Knock him right out, right in the middle of the floor. Now it’s going to look like he sent Jim in here to scope things out for him and they’re trying to double team Spock. He helps himself to one of the sample cookies sitting in an open container on the side of the counter and shoves it into his mouth to keep from saying anything stupid. Then he pats Spock’s hip as a goodbye and heads off. 

He can feel Spock’s eyes on the back of his head. 

He’s just left the counter when Spock calls evenly, “Thank you for your baking advice.”

Leonard pulls the cookie out of his mouth long enough to grunt, “No problem; page me any time you need more. Till nine.” He throws a wink in. 

He picks up a box of croissants on his way. It’s not really a proper meal, but fuck it. He wasted most of his break already and doesn’t have time to pick out something good. Jim appears from behind the grocery aisle, still munching the not-very-good cookies. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Picking food,” Leonard lies, for the sake of saving face. “I thought you were having fun bugging my poor replacement.”

Jim shrugs. “The Asian dude on till three came over and chased me off. Got all protective of Pawel.”

“Pavel.”

“Whatever. Anyway, you ready to eat?”

“Yeah, I just gotta buy these.”

“Can you do that at customer service so I don’t have to go through the tills again?”

Rolling his eyes, Leonard grumbles, “You baby.”

But they do go to customer service. The croissants are alright. They do eat in the parking lot, and Jim gives a crow a whole cookie that it obvious can’t eat. They talk about useless shit and Jim tries to play Leonard a song on his phone that’s absolutely terrible. But Jim’s difficult to argue with, so they listen to it. 

After, Leonard goes back to his till, which Pavel’s cleaning veraciously. He leaves as soon as Leonard taps him on the shoulder, gone to cover customer service. Leonard begrudgingly puts the apron back on. Jim had to leave for his own work, and Leonard knows that’s going to make the rest of his shift distinctly less bearable. 

He passes the next few minutes by daydreaming about giving Spock a lift home and getting a ‘thank you’ blowjob in the front seat. Then some eleven year old comes through and buys a bunch of candy. Leonard rings it up with an apathetic efficiency; as bored as he is, he always wants customers gone as fast as possible. The kid pays entirely in dimes and nickels and Leonard _hates_ him with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

Ten minutes later his phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the code on it, but then, he only knows the other till codes. Maybe it’s management ready to bitch at him for nearly getting off in the bakery or having his loser friends shadow him for half the day. It can’t be a customer—those go in to customer service.

He picks it up and grunts, “Hello?”

 _“Leonard?”_ The voice on the other side is level. 

Leonard says, “Spock.” 

_“Regulation is precisely between five and fifteen chocolate chips per cookie. In the best fiscal interest of the store, I have been opting towards five. However, given our recent conversation and your offer, I thought I might ask your opinion.”_

Leonard blinks. It’s such an odd question, phrased even odder. “Uh... I don’t think they actually expect you to measure those. Just throw a handful in.”

There’s a distinct pause. For a moment, Leonard’s sure Spock’s going to argue and say that isn’t ‘logical.’ Instead, he says, _“Perhaps you should come and demonstrate this for me.”_

Before Leonard can answer, he hangs up the phone. 

The Enterprise just got exponentially more interesting. 

Leonard picks up the phone, dials customer service, and barks into it, “I’m going to the bakery to help the new guy.” He hangs up before Pavel can answer. Apparently, that’s how it works around here. 

He tosses off his apron and marches off, already fighting to keep the smirk off his face.


End file.
